


we see this life in painted colors

by sebbykurt



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, also artist!newt because why not?, but an adorable idiot, minho is adorable and newt is kind of an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebbykurt/pseuds/sebbykurt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the following anonymous prompt: "can you do "Imagine A keeps leaving gifts for B (chocolates, flowers, love letters, etc) as an obvious hint that they have an admirer. Except B is dense and gets confused as to why someone keeps leaving their shit all over their desk, bag, and locker." for Minewt. up to you whichever one is A and B. Thanks!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	we see this life in painted colors

The worst part of Newt’s work day is the end of it.

Which sounds odd out of context, but Newt spends the entire day bent over a desk, pencil or marker in hand and tongue poking out past his teeth while he polishes up a sketch for the art magazine he’s currently a member of.  He’s almost constantly plugged into this iPod, ignoring e-mails inviting him to birthday celebrations and retirement parties.  He’ll throw a few dollars into an envelope and sign a card, sure, but there’s a big difference between pretending to care and _actually_ caring, and Newt doesn’t deal much with the latter.

The only person he actually enjoys seeing is (oddly enough) his boss, a cute man named Minho who has never been anything but kind to Newt.  He got the job almost immediately after they met for the first time and, over time, the two have grown quite close, despite how they tend to act while at work.

Leaving work means handing out awkward _goodbye_ ’s and _see you tomorrow_ ’s. 

And today, _god help him_ , he gets caught up in discussing the beautiful glow of pregnancy with one of the secretaries.

“You’re so sweet, Newt,” she tells him, and Newt feels a little bad for not remembering her name.  “It’s a miracle you’re still single.”

She gives him this weird, cat-like smile, which clashes horribly with the diamond wrapped around the ring finger of her left hand.

She’s pretty, sure, but he has absolutely _zero_ interest in her.  Never mind the fact that she’s at least _engaged_ , but he doesn’t exactly roll for what she has to offer.

He still blushes, though, feeling terribly awkward and far too big for the cramped cavity of her cubicle.  “Yeah…I don’t know…it’s just—“

“ _There_ he is!  My best worker!”

The sound of Minho’s voice releases the tension in Newt’s shoulders, and he relaxes instantly when his boss claps a hand down on his shoulder.  “Shouldn’t you be heading out, buddy?  Your shift ended fifteen minutes ago.”

Minho’s smile is cheery, but there’s an edge to it, probably because he knows how uncomfortable Newt gets in these situations.  (The whole office had gone to the bar together in celebration of some big boost in the budget, and Minho had dragged Newt along.  The night ended with Newt’s head in Minho’s lap in the back of a taxi, spilling out random facts about himself that most people wouldn’t give two shits about.  Minho had listened, though.  He’s good like that.)

“Oh, I was just telling our favorite artist here all about the spoils of pregnancy,” the woman sighs, waving her hand dismissively.  Any other magazine, any other boss, and she’d be fired for it, but Minho has never been pointlessly cruel. 

Minho squeezes Newt’s shoulder.  “Tell your fiancé I said ‘hello’, would you?” Minho asks, before dropping his hand to Newt’s waist and guiding him towards the exit. 

The woman gives Minho an almost _knowing_ look, and that cat-like smile is back, but she just promises Minho that she will before turning back to face her computer.

“Women, huh?” Minho snorts, and Newt smiles despite the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_Leave it to Minho_ , he thinks.

The other man’s hand drops from his waist while Newt grabs his bag and jacket.

“Need help catching a taxi?” Minho asks, and sometimes Newt wishes he wouldn’t _do_ that.  He wishes Minho wasn’t so damn _nice_ , because it gets Newt’s hopes up, and he’s been treading on broken glass from the moment he first laid eyes on the other man.

Newt wraps his fingers around the strap of his bag, somehow finding security in the contact.  “Nah, I’m good.  Thanks, mate.  See you tomorrow?”

Minho’s smile is brilliant.  Somebody should take a picture and frame it, because Newt doesn’t honestly think that his pencils could capture it properly.

“See you tomorrow.”

xxx

Newt is surprisingly tired, half asleep in the back of the taxi, when he figures that he should start digging around for his keys.

_Maybe it’s true what they say about artists_ , Newt thinks, balling up old receipts and shoving them in his pockets as he searches his bag for the ever-elusive apartment key.  _We’re all messy as hell._

He surprises himself when, instead of brushing across cold metal, he brushes against the unmistakable corner of a small box.

Odd, because Newt doesn’t really use his bag for anything other than his art supplies and keys, and he keeps neither of those things in any _box_.

He tugs it out with a frown, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he examines the small, heart-shaped box, wrapped in a carefully tied pink bow.  There’s no note, undoubtedly meaning that it ended up in his bag on accident.  He loves his coworkers, he really does, but they’re all idiots in their own right.

“Whatever,” he mumbles, ignoring the taxi driver when he’s asked what’s wrong.  “I’m keeping the sweets, though.”  He pops the box open, drops a chocolate into his mouth, and continues the search for his keys.

xxx

The next morning, Newt has to be in early to meet a deadline.  He’s not the first person in, but he’s definitely beaten about ninety-percent of the team to their stations.

He plans on plopping down in his chair, downing a too-hot cup of coffee to get his heart beating a little faster, and working until his hand cramps, but that plan is scrapped when he comes to his desk to find a small, red envelope sitting in the middle of it.

He doesn’t remember using a red envelope, but there’s no name on it, so who could have possibly left it there?

Sighing heavily, he snatches the envelope and rips it open.

Inside is a simple red card.  No cheesy lines or cartoons, just red cardboard.  Opening it reveals a single line of careful, inked script:

_It’s always been you._

Newt narrows his eyes, flipping the card over about a dozen times, looking for some sort of explanation.  “What the hell’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Rolling his eyes, Newt puts the card back into the envelope, grabs a tack out of his drawer, and pins it up on the workers’ board of incomplete ideas.  Somebody clearly misplaced their card before finishing it and if they want it back, Newt thinks this is their best bet on finding it.

xxx

At the end of the day, the card is gone.  Newt never looked up long enough to see who took it, but he’s glad that it’s back in the right hands.

With a little bit of work, a card like that could be a truly romantic gesture.

xxx

Two weeks later, and Newt has his first proper day off in _weeks_.

Usually, even when he’s meant _not_ to be working, he’s running something into the office or sketching something that Minho had randomly requested via text message.

Today, though, he’s shut off his phone and is absolutely ready to spend the whole day splayed out on his bed, rewatching all of the Harry Potter movies and pigging out on all of the junk food he’s been denying himself lately.

He’s halfway through _Prisoner of Azkaban_ when there’s a knock on the door.  At first, he considers ignoring it.  Occasionally, the people who leave take-out menus like to announce their presence, and it’s not like he sees that many visitors pass through. 

But the knocking persists, and an unfamiliar name calls his name through the wood.

Newt pauses the movie and slams the remote onto his bedside table, ready to give whoever it is a piece of his damned mind.

_Bothering me on my day off_ , he thinks.  _Well, they can bugger right off now, can’t they?_

He flings the door open, ready to shout at somebody (not that he actually _would_ , but still), only to find himself face-to-face with a bouquet of roses.

A young boy pokes his head out from behind the outrageous arrangement, smiling in a manner that is clearly forced.  “Special delivery for a _Mr. Newt_.”

“I didn’t order these,” Newt says flatly.  “These aren’t mine.  Must have the wrong person.”

The kid raises his eyebrows.  “Don’t think there are very many people with a name like yours, sir.  Besides, these were ordered _for_ you.”

The first thought that comes to mind is of his mother, who, every now and then, will send him little packages in the mail to “ _remind him of her love_.”  Roses are a bit extravagant, and they aren’t exactly selling the right message, but his mother has never been all that practical.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, grabbing the flowers and digging a few crumpled dollars out of the pockets of his sweats as a tip.  He smiles apologetically when the kid glares at him.

He sets the flowers down on his small excuse for a dining table, digging through them for a card of some sort. 

Coming up empty-handed, he figures there’s really only one option left.

He has to turn his phone on.

Since he’s home alone, he’s fully entitled to pout like a petulant child, and he does exactly that.  Turning on his phone means dealing with _people_ , and that’s the exact opposite of what he was going for today.  But he knows if that he doesn’t call his mother to confirm the delivery, she’ll call and have that poor kid fired, and as annoying as this whole thing is, it’s not really anybody’s fault.

Most people would find this whole thing quite flattering, anyway.

With a miserable, drawn-out sigh, Newt waits for his phone to turn on while brushing his fingers across the flowers’ petals.  They really are quite beautiful, and his mother must have spent a good fortune.

The phone buzzes a few times, signaling at least a dozen texts from a group chat he’s got going on with a few friends.  There’s one from Minho, too, which makes his heart flutter in a ridiculous way, but he ignores it for now and scrolls through a few pointless emails from work.

Nothing from his mom, though, but she’s probably waiting for him to actually _make_ the call.

He dials the familiar number, but frowns when it ends up going to voicemail.  “Hey mum, just calling to let you know that I got the flowers you sent.  They’re lovely.  Call me back when you can.  Love you.”

He scrolls through the group chat, smiling at a ridiculous picture that Thomas had sent of him and Brenda, Aris popping his head up in the background.

A text from his mom pops up.  **_At work.  Couldn’t take ur call.  Didn’t send any flowers.  U must have an admirer!!!!! :)_**  

Well that’s…odd.

Newt checks the flowers one last time, but there’s still no sign of any card, giving no indication as to how these flowers ended up in his possession.

**_No admirers_** , he types back.  **_Just a wrong address, I presume._**

Despite the itching need to crawl back into bed, he knows that ignoring a text from his boss is wildly irresponsible, even if they _are_ friends.

As to be expected, Minho wants a sketch on his desk first thing tomorrow morning.

**_Two people kissing.  Two men, specifically.  Let’s do something groundbreaking ;)_ **

Newt groans and drops his head to the table.

xxx

Halloween was never a big deal for Newt, but it is for everyone that he works with.

They throw a big party every thirty-first, full to the brim with alcohol, revealing costumes, and loud music.  Newt truly had no intention of going, but Minho had practically _begged_ him to attend, and so now he’s standing in the middle of a too-crowded room, slowing nursing a beer, with an atrocious pair of sunglasses balancing on his nose.

(Throwing together a last-minute costume had proved more difficult than expected, so he’d grabbed a ridiculous pair of glasses from an ancient New Year’s party, shrugging in response every time somebody asked him what he was supposed to be.)

He kind of wants to leave, though, because he only saw Minho for a solid minute about an hour ago, and even though he’s friendly with most of these people, they aren’t his _friends_.  Especially not when they’re drunk.

He’s just made the solid decision to leave when a hand clamps down on his shoulder, jerking him back a bit.  He nearly stumbles, but a pair of solid arms wrap around his waist, and he knows immediately from the warmth is spreads through his bones that it’s _Minho_.

“Enjoying the party, shuck-face?”  Minho is grinning like an idiot, but Newt can tell from the way he speaks that he hasn’t had too much to drink.

“I was just thinking about leaving, actually,” Newt confesses, ignoring the way Minho’s sudden frown makes his heart flutter weakly against his ribcage.  “These parties…they aren’t really my _thing_ , Minho.”

Eyebrows furrowed, like he’s _really_ thinking about something, Minho starts chewing on his bottom lip and, seriously, how is that _not_ supposed to be distracting?

Newt is busy taking a mental picture when Minho grabs his wrist and starts tugging him through the crowd, shooting a reassuring smile over his shoulder when Newt starts to protest.  “Just trust me!” he calls and, perhaps a bit foolishly, Newt does.

They end up in Minho’s office and even though Newt can still feel the bass-heavy music humming beneath his feet, it’s blissfully quiet.

Minho snatches the glasses off of Newt’s face and tosses them onto his desk, leaving Newt to wrinkle his nose in distasteful confusion.  “That’s my costume, mate.  Paid a fortune for it.  Better be careful.”

It’s meant to be a joke, and he starts to laugh a bit, but either Minho didn’t find it amusing or he isn’t paying attention, because the expression on his face is startlingly serious.

This time, it’s Newt who bites worriedly at his bottom lip.  “Is this like…are you _firing_ me?  Is that why you brought me here?”

Minho shakes his head and scoffs.  He doesn’t seem angry, just frustrated, and Newt has literally _zero_ idea what he’s done.

“You ignored _every single one of them_ ,” Minho says suddenly, throwing his hands out in exasperation.  “You even _pinned_ one of them to the freakin’ idea board, _Jesus_ , Newt.”

Newt shakes his head.  “Minho, what—“

“Those roses weren’t cheap, ya know?”

And suddenly, it all clicks into place.

The chocolates, the card, the roses.

None of them were an accident.

They were all…

They were all from Minho.  _For_ Newt.

“You gave me all of those things,” Newt says slowly, because he has to be really, _really_ sure here, “because you _like_ me, then?”

Minho rolls his eyes.  “My feelings for you have been obvious for a _long_ time, Newt.  And all of those things I gave you?  All of those stupid little romcom clichés were meant to be my way of _asking you out_ , because I thought you felt the same way, but apparently not.  And that’s sad, sure, whatever, but you shouldn’t have just ignored it all—“

Newt shuts him up with a kiss.

It’s hard, like being slammed up against the wall, but _god_ it’s good.  Newt has thought about this for a long, _long_ time now, and it’s even better than he could have _ever_ imagined.

Minho pulls away first, even though Newt whines in complaint.  “Wait…I thought…I _thought_ you didn’t feel the same way?  I thought that’s why you ignored all those little gifts?”

Newt shakes his head, licking his lips in frustration.  “I thought those were all accidents,” he breathes out, wrapping his arms around Minho’s shoulders and pulling him closer.  “People putting things in the wrong places.  Sending them to the wrong address.”

Minho groans, bumping his forehead against Newt’s.  “You’re a _shucking_ idiot.”

“Just shut up and kiss me, _boss_.”

A small, gasp-like sound parts Minho’s lips.  “I could get used to the sound of that.”

Newt laughs, letting the sound of it get trapped in Minho’s mouth.


End file.
